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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26048068">to the sea</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd'>brookethenerd</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Stranger Things (TV 2016)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Memory Alteration, Memory Loss, Mutual Pining, Post-Stranger Things 3, theyre in love and also in denial</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-08-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 09:41:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,917</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26048068</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/brookethenerd/pseuds/brookethenerd</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>When Steve and the reader find clues leading to each other, they realize their memories of the other - and of a Hawkins full of monsters, telepathic kids, and evil scientists - have been erased and replaced more than once. The pair strive to bring their shattered group back together and stop the scientists using the Upside Down and Hawkins as their playground before whoever took their memories finds them again.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Harrington/Reader, Steve Harrington/You</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>2</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>12</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>to the sea</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>we’re back pals!! couldnt keep that mind shut off for long!!! the original concept for this came from @daddystevee forever ago so bless u kait for always being a genius and helping me brainstorm this fic &lt;3 and, shocker, its not a time travel au! i know! sometimes i even surprise myself!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    
<p></p><div class="">
  <p></p>
  <div class="">
    <p>
      <strong>NOW</strong>
    </p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>Steve Harrington won’t stay out of your dreams.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>It’s been at least four days of an endless cycle that starts the moment your eyes fall shut - blurred images and a twisting ache in your belly and the pressure of someone’s hand in yours - and ends with you jerking awake, soaked in sweat and just as tired as when you went to sleep.</p>
  </div>
  <div class="">
    <p>You don’t even remember what you’re dreaming about, nor do you know <em>how</em> you know that Steve Harrington is part of it, but you do. Each morning, you wake with his name on your lips with no memory of how it got there.</p>
  </div>
</div><div class="">
  <p>On the fifth morning, you drag your newly-dried sheets into your bedroom, dropping the bundle onto the plain mattress with a huff. With each tug of the sheet, you curse Steve’s name in your head (you haven’t even seen the guy since graduation, or maybe at the mall once or twice before the big fire, so where does he get off on screwing around in your subconscious?).</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The last corner flies back up over the edge, and you grumble in irritation as you hoist the mattress up, balancing it on one knee as you tug fabric over the soft corner. After a bit of a fight, the sheet snaps into place, catching on something tucked beneath the mattress and the bed springs and crinkling.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Paper?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>With a frown, you push the mattress back up again, snaking a hand beneath it and fumbling until your fingers catch the corner of an envelope. You grab the small package and pull it out, letting the bed fall and lifting the envelope to inspect.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You pull open the flap to reveal two folded notes no larger than sticky notes tucked into the envelope. A misplaced and somewhat confusing adrenaline twists inside you, like your body knows some secret you don’t.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The first note, dated November 1984, reads, '<em>Steve Harrington is the answer. Don’t lose him again</em>,’ in your handwriting. The name brings forth that familiar sensation from your dreams, the one of longing and losing and wanting.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your heartbeat rises in your ears and a voice deep inside you urges you to stop; some doors are meant to stay shut; some things were never meant to be exhumed. That voice grows louder and louder like it was tugged to life by the name - <em>his</em> name - but it is detached and cold, utterly opposite from the warmth and adrenaline coursing through your veins.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You have already turned the knob; you suppose the door is open, now.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The second note, dated July 1985 - the proximity to now, October, sends a chill down your spine - is not written in your handwriting, but a scrawl you don’t recognize.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>‘<em>Remember me. Love, Steve Harrington</em>.' Despite not remembering it, you know you've seen it; merely looking at it makes you hurt.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You trace a finger slowly across the black ink, a heavy ache settling onto your lungs. There are answers in these notes that you can neither touch nor see. You are in a waking dream trying to run, but your feet won't move fast enough to find what you're looking for (and honestly, you're not even entirely sure what you're looking for).</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your mind and memories are a dusty old cupboard, and though you can't decide where the problem lies, you can see that mugs are missing, and bowls are in the wrong places. And though it shouldn't be right, shouldn't make sense, the answer is Steve Harrington.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>As far as you know, it has been nearly eight months since you spoke with Steve Harrington; as far as this letter indicates, it has been three, and the parting circumstances were subpar.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You wish you could forget it, wish you could rip the notes up, and pretend you never found them; you wish you could scrub the memory out. There can be nothing good at the end of this string, and yet, you can't keep from pulling it.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <hr/>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You walk straight out of Steve’s dreams into the video store. Literally.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He’s nodding off at the counter, only the shift’s slowness and Keith’s absence making such a thing possible, when the bell dings above the door and he lifts his head, blinking away the still-fading blurry images of you to find the real you at the front of the store, scanning it with furrowed brows.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Of all the people his subconscious could torture him with, he can’t for the life of him figure out why it’s <em>you</em>. You’re just someone he graduated with that likely hated or envied him for the horrible facade he held for so long.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If that's true, though, why is his skin flushed and skittering with nerves, and why is his heart pounding and <em>god</em>, why can’t he stop looking at your mouth?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Fortunately, or unfortunately, for him, you don’t approach the counter, instead breaking off to one of the movie aisles, giving Steve a chance to swallow the stone in his throat and locate Robin where she’s restocking across the room.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He isn’t proud of his next move, but that doesn’t stop him from making it; he bolts in her direction, quickly telling her he’s heading to the bathroom before darting down the back hall and into the break room.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He is hiding from someone he doesn’t even really know. <em>Why</em> is he hiding from someone he doesn't really know? Dreams happen, and in Steve's experience, they are weird. Stocked full of monsters he can't believe he dreamt of and white coats and the hauntingly realistic prick of a syringe.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>They are just dreams, though. And you, for whatever reason, ended up tangled in the mix.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He rakes a hand through his already disheveled hair and shakes his head, scolding himself internally for making such a fool of himself, even if no one but him was there to see it. His shift only lasts another hour, and if he’s lucky, you’ve already gone and went with whatever you came into the store for. He can make it an hour without acting noticeably certifiable.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>That resolve falters when he makes it back into the store and finds you browsing the shelves with an intense furrow to your brow that Steve can't imagine is related to the selection in front of you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>(He has the strangest urge to ask you about your favorite movies; to ask you about everything.)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>To keep his attention off you - and to prevent himself from looking like a creep - he pulls one of his notebooks from beneath the countertop, flipping to the penciled budget he adjusted each week. If he’s smart about it, he’ll have enough saved by the time Robin graduates in the spring to split an apartment big enough for the both of them.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If he can make it until spring, he can get the hell out of his parent's house and Hawkins.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>He's managed to distract himself enough with daydreams he doesn't notice you approaching the counter, not lifting his gaze until you clear your throat, and he snaps his head up. His pulse leaps, and he presses his lips together, shoving the notebook aside and forcing a polite smile onto his lips.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Hey,” he says. “Ready to checkout?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Your brows crease for a moment before your gaze falls to the notebook on the counter. Whatever you were about to say dies as you snap your eyes back to his and press your lips firmly together.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We need to talk,” you say.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"You know that's literally the worst thing you can say to someone right?" He asks. You narrow your eyes, and he huffs, shrugging his shoulders. "Fine. Want to tell me what this is about?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It’s kind of complicated.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Steve nods, saying, "Like, won't fit into a ten-minute break, complicated?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think Robin can hold down the fort,” you say. Confusion twists your expression as it settles into Steve, and he frowns.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You know Robin?” He asks. Your lips part, and for a long moment, your eyes go blank.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yeah,” you say, though even Steve can tell you don’t believe it. “We had a class together in high school.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Right,” Steve says.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Right.” You clear your throat, a hand slipping into the pocket of your hoodie. Paper crinkles inside the pocket, and something akin to relief with a mix of doubt flickers in your expression. “So. Talk?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Follow me,” Steve says, pushing away from the counter and coming around to your side, jerking a chin toward the front door. He calls out to Robin to let her know he’s leaving, and she tells him to be back in ten or face Keith’s wrath, to which he lovingly flips her off before pushing open the front door and holding it for you. (Robin is bluffing, you’re far too quiet, and Steve’s stomach is clawing its way up his throat)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The storefront of the video store and the arcade is quiet, sundown sending the kids who typically linger out front home for dinner and casting the pot-holed streets in deep oranges and light umbers.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Steve moves to lean against the hood of his car, folding his arms across his chest. You stand a few feet back, a similar guardedness to your stance and expression.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Shoot,” he says.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I think you and I know each other,” you say. “Like…really know each other.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“What are you talking about?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Can I tell you something really weird, and potentially creepy?” You say. “And can you promise you’ll hear me out before you tell me off?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Even if Steve wanted to move, his feet are firmly rooted to the sidewalk. He doesn’t know what nails him to the spot, but all he cares about is hearing what you have to say.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>(The reason for that eludes him, but you can’t win them all. Or, in Steve’s case these past few years, any of them.)</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I mean…” Steve says, shrugging. “Sure. Yeah.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You swallow and nod, the words seeming to tumble out of you when you say, “I’ve been seeing you in my dreams for four nights straight, and today, I found a note, and I know that it sounds ridiculous, but I think <em>you</em> wrote it.” You take a deep breath, avoiding Steve’s eyes when you continue. “I think…someone made us forget knowing each other, and I think it happened more than once.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Steve can't find the words to speak for a long moment, and when he does, they come out all wrong, and he instantly hates himself for their harshness.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"Say I believed you." His frown deepens as he struggles to shake off the facade's last bits, still clinging to his back; an endless struggle. "I don't, but if I did. How would you even know, if we forgot?"</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You pull the envelope from your bag and hold it out, letting him pull out two pieces of paper and unfold them; letting him read words he does not remember writing. Even if your writing was a farce, he knows his own chicken scrawl; he has been writing his name like that since he was young.  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“That’s your handwriting, yeah?” You ask. Steve nods.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“How many times?” He asks, voice low.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“As far as I can tell…three.” You take a deep breath. “We, or they, or whatever…didn’t see it coming the first time, I guess.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Steve stares down at the two notes in his hand, prickling anxiety simmering inside him. It's like staring at a clock in the dream and knowing you should see numbers, but having no ability to clear the image.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p><em>Steve Harrington. Don’t lose him again.</em> Steve’s name written in your handwriting. <em>Again</em>. That word aches with a ferocity Steve has no way to stow, and it burns him from top to bottom, slithering up and down his spine and splitting into his limbs.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>And the final nail in the coffin: Steve’s note. The one he doesn’t remember writing but certainly did; the one that tells you to remember him.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Remember what, though?</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You…you’ve been dreaming about me, too?” You ask, though it’s clear you’ve answered that question on your own.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Steve’s lips pull thin, and he says, “How’d you know?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You cock a brow, and the tiniest of smiles tugs on your lips.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Anybody who hadn’t probably would have been a little more freaked by that confession,” you say.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“I’m not just anybody.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Clearly not,” you say. Your gaze falls to his lips for the briefest of moments before darting back up.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>A sudden nervousness claws at his insides and he clears his throat, tucking the notes back into the envelopes to give his hands something to do, folding the top over and holding it back out. You reach out to take it, fingers closing around the paper, two fingers dropping on top of Steve’s.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Just as he lifts his gaze to yours, the world fades to black, and a memory punches through the surface.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>THEN</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"We don't know that they'll do it again." Steve stood in the middle of the room, his arms folded tightly against his chest, and his expression twisted like he chomped down on something sour.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You stopped in your tugging up of the sheets and propped the mattress, blowing a stray hair out of your eyes and letting the mattress thump back onto the bed springs. Your brows twitched, and the sadness that flickered in your gaze made Steve's chest ache like someone was stomping down on his lungs.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Yes,” you said, “we do.”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Third time’s the charm?” Steve asked.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You snorted a humorless laugh and rolled your eyes, carefully folding the now-worn papers in your hands and tucking them into an envelope. Your touch was gentle and careful in the endeavor like you feared the paper might dissolve beneath your fingers.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>If it did, the only evidence of you and Steve Harrington as what you were in this room would dissolve, too.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Maybe we’re wrong,” Steve said. He didn’t know why he couldn’t let go of the delusion, despite it only hanging by threads all connected through sheer denial and fear, but the thought of giving in was scarier than the thought of someone coming in each year to erase the minds of all of you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“You know we’re not.” You tucked the envelope beneath the mattress, pushing it a foot back before letting the mattress fall again.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“It <em>is</em> crazy, though,” Steve said. “I mean, I know we’ve seen some wacky stuff, but…”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Don’t you <em>want</em> to remember?” You asked, doubt creeping into your voice.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>The last of Steve’s defense came tumbling down, Humpty Dumpty on the wall with no horses or men to hoist him back up again. He let out a sigh and crossed the room, sinking onto the undone bed and shaking his head before lifting his gaze to yours.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"I don't want to forget," he said, incapable of stopping the break in his voice. Just as he did moments before, someone clipped your strings, and you dropped down beside him, your exhale long and shaking.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Me neither,” you said softly.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Steve swallowed the tears clogging his throat, slipped an arm around you, pulled you into his side, and ducked his chin, pressing his lips to your head and closing his eyes. You shuddered against him, exhaustion and pain from the past few days still lingering in your bones, now making room for the heaviest of moments before the monsters come to take them all away.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“We find our way back to each other,” Steve said, lifting his head, and you pulled back to meet his gaze, your eyes red with unshed tears. “We always do. Right?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Always,” you agreed.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>“Let’s just hope our minds aren’t too scrambled after this to find the clues,” Steve said. You smiled sadly, and he tipped his forehead against yours for a long moment before lifting his chin and kissing you slowly. He had to believe it wouldn’t be the last, but it would be for a little while; until one of you unraveled the knot and tugged on the thread.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>Until then, there was only this, and even this wouldn’t last.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>
    <strong>NOW</strong>
  </p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You yank your hand away, the dusk darkness snapping back into place, Steve Harrington leaning against his car a yard away with a stricken expression you imagine is plastered on your face, too.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>For a long time, you just stare at each other, both breathing heavily despite having done nothing but touch fingers, reeling from the memory that rocked through you both.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>July of 1985. A mere three months ago.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There is so much to say that there is somehow nothing, and after a thick and heavy moment of silence, Steve says, in a strained tone, “Does that mean I hid something, too?”</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>"I think so," you say, suddenly incapable of meeting his eyes. You can still feel the emotions from the memory simmering in your gut, scraping along your insides, and plucking at your defenses.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>There is more to the story, and you know that, but for some reason, all you want is to be back in that moment; the moment where Steve loved you.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You don't remember him, yet you feel as if you know him better than you know yourself.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>According to you of the past, Steve Harrington is the answer, and while you don’t yet know what the question is, you make a vow to the person that has lost so much - the you that you don’t remember.</p>
</div><div class="">
  <p>You will not lose Steve Harrington again</p>
</div>
  </div></div>
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